Hell Pig

To keep me from staying out late at night,

my mother warned of the Hell Pig. Black and full



of hot drool, eyes the color of a lung—it’d follow me

home if I stayed past my curfew. How to tell my friends



to press Pause in the middle of a video, say their good-byes

while I shuffled up the stairs and into my father’s waiting



blue car? How to explain this to my dates, whisper

why we could not finish this dance? It’s not like the pig



had any special powers or could take a tiny bite

from my leg – only assurances that it was simply



scandal to be followed home. When my date and I
pull into my driveway and dim the lights, we



take care to make all the small noises that get made

in times like these even smaller: squeaks in the seats,



a slow spin of the radio dial, the silver click of my belt.

Too late. A single black hair flickers awake the ear



of the dark animal waiting for me at the end of the walk.

My fumbling of keys and various straps a wild dance



to the door – the pig grunting in tune to each hurried step, each

of his wet breaths puffing into tiny clouds, a small storm brewing.